


Intermezzo

by Hashilavalamp



Series: We reap what we sow [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia, Illustrated, Interlude, basically a lot of awkwardness, i am in too deep, social ineptitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hashilavalamp/pseuds/Hashilavalamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a rather vague letter of invitation, Italy travels to Berlin to speak with Prussia, but it turns out the man simply needs somebody to play spy for him and that Germany is not as simple as he seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermezzo

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot stop writing and it's becoming a problem. Anyway, this is a bit of an interlude to establish some ideas I have about the nations, Germany in particular! Hope you have fun :D  
> As a side note, the comment about being like dogs by Bismarck is not an actual quote!

1881\. May.

For such an oddly theatrical man, his home is surprisingly plain.

When Feliciano thinks of Prussia, what he imagines are great pastures spanning further than the eye can see and a marvelous mansion to loom over humbled visitors, or a magnificent castle nestled deep in a dark forest in the mountains. Imagines Sanssouci with its vast gardens. Something monumental, at least, monumental as the legacy Prussia boasts and the tales about him and impressive as only befitting of a man of such temperament.

But it is just a large house in the nicer parts of Berlin, sitting there at the end of the street barely distinguishable from the rest, leaving the Italian nearly disappointed when he finds his expectations are not met and reminding him of how long it had been since he had seen Prussia out of uniform.  
Perhaps he should take it as a lesson to not always let his fantasies to get the best of him, he thinks, and quickly shrugs the feeling off before it can really take hold of him and dampen his mood.There’s beauty in simplicity too, is there not? Some at least.

With that thought in mind, he knocks.

The front door is ripped open the second his knuckles meet the polished wood, and Feliciano can’t help but let out a little shriek and jump back, almost tripping down the stone steps again. His heart pounds heavily and frantically in his chest as if trying to keep itself from going into cardiac arrest through sheer force of will, and Feliciano struggles to keep a dignified look about himself.

“You are late, Feliciano.”

With still trembling hands and nervous laughter the boy rubs the back of his neck and pulls up his shoulders in a defensive gesture when he meets the look of disdain from his host. “Ah, I apologize, you see it has been quite a while since I’ve last been here! Navigating the streets was a bit more complicated than anticipated and I ended up in the wrong district, so I had to ask humans to give me the proper directions and—“

Gilbert dismissively waves it off to stop the tangent before it has even really begun, instead stepping aside to let the Italian in.  
Feliciano lets out another airy laugh and follows the nonverbal invitation with light steps, internally thanking God for gifting him with a tongue that speaks without him needing to think when the situation requires it, with so many words that people grow annoyed before they can really question what he says. It has saved his ass more times than not, and it’s kept him from calling Gilbert out on his rudeness. 

He takes in the slightly more lavish interior of the small manor with mild interest while Gilbert strides ahead, stopping here and there to look at the portraits of the stern looking men and women on the walls, frowning at the lack of artistry and life in any of these, and subsequently having to jog to catch up with his guide. It all looks like a haphazard attempt to create an air of intellectuality to compensate for a life in poverty and mud, when it’s antlers that belong on these walls.

They don’t come across any people on their way deeper into the building with the unknown destination, and Feliciano wonders if Prussia lives here all on his own, not even with the barest amount of company.

Hard to imagine, because there is at least one person who should be here.

“May I ask why you invited me?” Feliciano asks eventually to break the silence when Gilbert finally comes to a stop before one of the mysterious doors everywhere. There was nothing about a cause for invitation in Gilbert’s letter, just a casual request for a meeting, but the man’s single-mindedness and silence speak of something else.  
Feliciano had had half a mind to discard the invitation at first, having much larger issues to face in the aftermath of risorgimento, but then he wanted to see just what could require his presence here since nobody ever extends an invitation without some ulterior motives. His interest rises when curiously enough, the Prussian does not reply to his question immediately and instead glances at the door and then back at him, suddenly intently scrutinizing him.  
Stalling.

“There is a… favor I have to ask of you. And I demand that you do not speak about it with anyone, understood?” the man says in a suspiciously hushed tone and a haunted look in his dark-ringed eyes once he is done with his inspection.  
Good-naturedly, Feliciano smiles and tries to lower his voice to the same conspiratory whisper of the other, internally sighing though in self-satisfaction. Of course it was a favor that he had to fulfill. How nice it was to be right! “I assure you, nothing about this will leave this house.”

Part of him tells him to stop making promises so lightly, because sometimes those are terribly hard to keep. 

Gilbert’s tense posture barely relaxes at the words, the muscles of the body still taut like a bowstring ready to snap as if he can hear what Feliciano thinks, but his pale lips at least still pull into a strained lop-sided smile, revealing the glint of a sharp incisor.

“Excellent. I wouldn’t want to declare war on you, Feliciano” he exclaims, tone dark with the implied threat and Feliciano catches himself shivering from the callousness of it. Nevermind that the notion of war between them is ridiculous at a time like this, as is the idea of Prussia itself commanding the military. It was simply that this side of Gilbert has just always been vaguely unsettling.

“The favor, Gilbert, what is it?” he blurts out, frustrated with himself at how brusque it comes out, relief stilling his shaking fingers when Prussia doesn’t retaliate.

Gilbert reaches out and turns the door handle, halting before he pushes the door open more than a sliver. His stare is intense when he fixes Feliciano with it, but his voice is back to a soft, tired murmur. “Speak with him. I don’t care what it is about, just engage in some conversation with him and then report to me when you are done.”

So Prussia is not alone after all, ha.

“Don’t get the wrong idea” Gilbert hisses just before Feliciano enters the room. “I don’t normally let others spy on my brother.”  
Feliciano doesn’t know what to say to that so he just smiles, shrugs his shoulders, and heads into the room.

It’s a study, he realizes when he takes the first step in, breathing in dust and eyes falling onto the rows of shelves lining the walls of the narrow room, their boards bending and suffering under the weight of the books forced onto them without any space left between them. Feliciano has the vague suspicion that despite this, the books are all arranged in strict alphabetical order.  
At the end of the room beneath the window stands a little desk whose surface all but disappears under ink-stained papers and yet more books neatly stacked on top of each other.

With a start Feliciano notices that the person sitting at the desk has long spotted him and is glowering at him from over his shoulder with piercing blue eyes.

“What have you been talking about with my brother?” Ludwig inquires in a rough voice so different from when Feliciano last heard it and in the next instant rises to his feet to approach him, making the Italian feel terribly cornered all of a sudden.  
The door behind him is already closed, and even if he notes that the boy is still shorter than him, the wounds on his face having faded into scar tissue, he’s obviously had a growth spurt and developed an awful temper to match that of his brother, one that didn’t come out quite the same way in the few letters they’d exchanged so far.  
Feliciano hadn’t had high hopes for him in that regard, but it’s still amusing and saddening at once that Ludwig takes after Prussia so much.

But ah, why couldn’t the Germans just greet him nicely for once, Feliciano whines on the inside as he quickly raises his hands in front of his body to show that he means no harm and lets his mouth do the rest for him with a lengthy excuse.

Ludwig stops in front of him and seems to contemplate whatever it was that he said, and Feliciano feels his heart beat painfully in his throat until the other’s face smoothes over with wary acceptance. Guarded posture still.  
“Is that so” the teen says pensively and takes a step back to give his guest a little more breathing room. “And you really are just Italy now, Feliciano? No more Venice?”

“I’m more than Venice now” the Italian corrects with a trace of smugness and overly enthusiastically nods his head and yet so completely uniterested in continuing this conversation. “You have grown a lot in those ten years since I last actually saw you, almost like the humans do! I’d call it unsettling if you wouldn’t get angry about that.”

With an apparent rush of both irritation and pride the boy pushes back his shoulders and stands a little taller, cheeks a light pink. “Things are going well, just fine, so obviously my growth can go unhindered and— …and I ought to greet you properly.”  
With the decency to be flustered by his own lack of manners, Ludwig finally stretches out his hand in stiff politeness and he visibly flinches when Feliciano grabs it with both hands and shakes it with a tight grip. The Italian pretends to not have seen it and gives the friendliest smile he can muster. Funny to think that this is the kindest greeting they’ve shared so far, compared to Ludwig’s petulant snarls in the past.

Wordlessly the German points him to a chair in the corner that Feliciano missed in his first inspection of the room and they each sit down on their respective seats, Ludwig turning his so that they can face one another, restless and scratching at the skin of his hands.  
From this position Feliciano has to blink against the light glaring through the window to see Ludwig’s face.

“I was aware that my brother invited somebody, though he refrained from telling me who” Ludwig begins after an awkward pause and clears his throat. “I thought it odd he would have company at such a time.”

“At such a time?” Feliciano immediately echoes and leans forward in his seat a little to try and get the sun out of his eyes, still catching how Ludwig in turn leans back and his eyes glide to the side in guilt.  
“I should not be speaking of it with you, I think” he replies, each word weighed and spoken in careful deliberation and obvious distrust, to which Feliciano can merely laugh. The noise seems to startle the boy, but Feliciano cannot quell the sound because even if Ludwig has grown fast, he speaks like an insecure child and that is a strange comfort. Italy doesn’t need to feel bad about having stayed a child for so long, about being hardly more than a teenager himself, if this nation is not better than him after all.

Ludwig is still the boy who throws himself into drinking contests at the slightest provocation when he shouldn’t even be drinking wine, still impulsive and torn.

“I have promised your brother to not talk to anyone outside this house about what I may witness here, and he promptly threatened me with war should I break that promise, so you can safely talk to me about anything you want! Not even my boss will hear of anything!” he chortles and wipes away a stray tear leaking out of his eye, ignoring the confused gaze resting on him. “Your distrust is endearing, but pointless.”  
“That is reassuring at least” the German responds dryly. He clasps his hands together and breathes a deep sigh, fixing Feliciano with his intense eyes again, still the picture of restlessness. “Gilbert and I just returned from a meeting with Austria and Russia.”  
“How did it go?” Feliciano asks, as though he hadn’t known Russia would come crawling back to the alliance like a dog. He’s a little frustrated that this is all Ludwig has to offer in terms of information.  
Germany immediately pulls an unsightly grimace and he tenses. “Horrendously” he says in a clipped tone. “The two would not cease glaring at one another. Chancellor Bismarck compared them to two dogs on leashes, ready to tear out each other’s throats if he were to release them, and I feel that aptly describes the situation. I don’t know how it will be once our emperors come to meet each other at last to finalize the alliance.”

Feliciano tries to picture it, Roderich and Ivan cooped up in a room together with their bosses arguing, and Ludwig and Gilbert somewhere in the middle of it with Bismarck trying to keep everything from turning into a bloodbath, and it wrings another laugh from him.  
Politics are a terrible mess, and he knows exactly why he always does his best to stay out of it unless it concerns him nowadays. Having gossip is nice, and Feliciano does make sure to have a few aces up his sleeves just in case, just in case, but he’s too old for getting involved in every damn little dispute.

“There is nothing amusing about that” Ludwig reprimands him, so for the sake of keeping the boy happy Feliciano feigns an apologetic expression and lowers his head.

“If they do not get along, why were you meeting at all?” he inquires as casually as possible once Germany relaxes once more, trying to not sound like he is attempting to gather information to pass them onto somebody, trying not to stoke the fire of paranoia.  
“I will not get into the details, but essentially to ensure none of us will attack one another, should we pursue war with another country” Ludwig explains tentatively, pausing for a second, furrowing his brow. “…But you would know that already. Brother has been worried about the state of some things, and we are both kept busy by Bismarck. Hence my surprise over us hosting a guest now.”

Feliciano squints his eyes and even in the shadow cast by the sun behind the boy, he can make out the dark circles under the German’s eyes.

“Understandable, though to me it sounds as though you are working yourself too hard and worrying your little head off over details needlessly again. Perhaps you should take a little break, no? Come have a drink with me and see which one of us wins this time” he suggests in mocking sympathy, knowing he said the wrong thing the moment the words leave his mouth and Ludwig scowls.  
“We can’t all take a break simply because we feel like it” he sneers, crossing his arms in front of his chest as his voice breaks pathetically. “Brother is raising me to keep the balance of power on the continent, haven’t I told you before? I refuse to disappoint him by making myself vulnerable to attacks just because I felt like taking a break, and I refuse to let down Europe like that! I will fulfill my duty without fail, and you’d do well to try and do the same for once in your life!”

Feliciano flinches at the words hitting vulnerable spots like needles, his lips twisting into a nervous smile despite this when he mumbles an insincere apology. It’s amusing, isn’t it, that the boy is so easy to set off, that he’s like a little version of Gilbert? The smile morphs into something genuine when he holds on to that thought.

Ludwig jumps to his feet and begins pacing, the floor boards creaking under his feet, posture perfectly straight and proud like the soldier he is in his uniform. Then he walks towards one of the shelves, reaching for one of the books and wrenching it out of its tight place with ease – no search necessary. The books have to be arranged in alphabetical order.  
Neurotic.

He weighs the small thing bound in leather in his hands before he turns towards Feliciano. Awkwardly he keeps his arms stretched out, holding out the book to his guest and letting out a sigh when it is taken from him as though he had been released of a burden. It’s a collection of poems by…, ah, it’s Goethe.

Feliciano opens his mouth to ask Ludwig about it, because he is not sure what he is to do with the works of a German poet right now, when Ludwig manages to speak first.

“You present yourself as a blathering airhead whenever we talk. And you are quite irritating so far. But—“ His cheeks color again with embarrassment. “I let my temper get to me. I know you face your own struggles and that I cannot hold others to the same standards as me and that not everyone feels the same pressure of obligation. And I had vowed to make a better impression on you, the next time we meet. …I didn’t really succeed in that endeavor.”

Incredible, how the other manages to apologize for his behavior and yet further insult him in only three sentences. Almost impressive if you think about it, pah. He really still needs to work on that if he wants to be Europe’s friend. It’s alright only because Ludwig is so young.

Ludwig taps onto the cover of the book with his pointer, a shy smile ghosting across his face.

“Goethe was so impressed by you, your brothers, and your country. The way he describes it has made me wish to visit ever since I had the consciousness to be familiar with his works, but I never had the opportunity to really get out. My brother is worried that you others will come to think of me as a barbarian with no culture because of his influence. Says that others will forget that my consciousness reaches back to before he decided to raise me, and due to– all that I wanted to rather talk about things like this with you” Ludwig says and takes a sigh as though speaking so much were akin to running a marathon. “Poetry. What your country is like. Not berate you on your personal failings, however aggravating they may appear to me.”

For once, not even Feliciano can say anything, his tongue as silent and still as his mind. He blinks in stunned silence and peers up at Ludwig, whose cheeks are still a little red.  
He swallows, but something seems to slip into his windpipe and lodges itself there in his chest. His brothers, right. Not many of those left.

“It’s about time you ask me about my country a little more! I can’t believe Gilbert neglected your education so horribly that you haven’t done this before!” he exclaims delightfully against the burn of tears, and Ludwig hurriedly takes his seat again.

When Italy speaks, he listens attentively, taking notes on one of his papers, questioning, soaking up whatever Feliciano tells him. Sometimes, when Feliciano gives him particularly interesting information or slips in a teasing comment (and oh it is so hard to refrain from telling the more salacious stories!), Ludwig’s face brightens a little, the creases smoothing out a little more each time until he no longer resembles the unkind teenage boy who had greeted Feliciano earlier.  
Once, a small and fragile laugh leaves Ludwig’s mouth.  
The words come very easily with an audience like this, so Feliciano allows his mind to wander on its own journey, contemplating things that hadn’t weighed on him in years. The thing in his chest grows, obstructing his breathing, so he is forced to address it.  
It’s a  
suspicion.  
Oh no—

Worse, it’s hope perhaps.

That’s rather, ah, inconvenient, and Feliciano has never liked things that are promise difficulty and the danger of disappointment. 

Eventually it seems that Ludwig’s curiosity is sated for the moment and he begins to sort his notes neatly, neurotically, and while he works, the poison seizes the opportunity to spread rapidly within Feliciano, each heartbeat forcing it through his veins into every last part of his being until his chest threatens to burst with it like a fragile bubble.  
(The face is so familiar, he knows those blue eyes, the blond hair—)

“Ludwig, I’ve wondered, how far back does your memory go?”

Ludwig stills in his motions, the sound of rustling papers ceases, and he tilts his head to the side in thought.

“It’s… it’s a bit complicated. I don’t believe I can adequately answer your question, I am afraid” he replies after a pause, his tone tentative now as though he were treading on thin ice threatening to break. Even if he has his back turned, it is obvious that he runs his fingertips over the scars studding the skin of his face. Reminders of sacrifices being made for his life.  
Roderich had called him a ragdoll of Gilbert’s design once in France while the proud brother had his back turned.

“That’s fine!” Feliciano assures him with an artificial grin, his voice cracking and sounding strangely hysterical in his own ears. “Just— I am fine with any answer! I have seen many nations be born you know, so this is always a source of curiosity for me.”

Liar. He knows exactly what kind of answer he is looking for.

“I know exactly on what day I’ve opened my eyes for the first time.” A pause. “May, 1832, in a crowd in Hambach. I know exactly when my life began, but ever since my scars have begun to fade and with them the life of my siblings, there’s bits and pieces from a time before that. It’s as though I’m integrating parts of them into myself, and it makes it horribly difficult to make sense of everything. Is that what happens when nations become obsolete? Do they lose parts of themselves to the one who rendered them useless? Where do I begin then, really, I mean if I take on these pieces of them am I really just myself anymore or someone else or? –See, it is a mess. Not very succinct. Too many questions.”

“Don’t worry too much about having questions. I understand you, I think.”

Ludwig’s head snaps up, turning slightly to face his guest. “…Do you?”

“Remember when we met in France? What Gilbert said? I have grown from Venice into northern Italy, that wasn’t exactly a seamless transition either. It’s difficult to sort through the memories and make sense of them, isn’t? Is this me? Is it my brother or sister?”

There is a rustling of paper, and then Ludwig turns around fully, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles show white through the skin and for a second Feliciano believes he sees the shadow of another.

“It is” he murmurs. “It must be easier when you so clearly precede that period of becoming whole. I didn’t have that time, and even the memories from before 1867 are becoming fuzzy. I wish I had existed earlier, as I should have.”

The bubble expands, trembles—

“Should have?”

“Yes. There have been German people before I was there, a German nation. But my spot was taken by somebody else. By Holy Roman Empire” Ludwig says, spitting out the name of the other as though it were a foul curse. “Isn’t that frustrating? He had centuries at his disposal and yet failed his whole life at which I will succeed, despite the little time I’ve had on this earth.”

…and it. Bursts?

Feliciano doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but he knows his lungs seize up and his heart and stomach lurch in his body.  
A laugh bubbles up in his throat like acid because this is just absurd. The pieces are all there, the hair the eyes the face– Feliciano had believed that maybe those two were not separate after all. But now he hears Ludwig spill such venom about Holy Roman Empire, stupid little Karl–  
This is just absurd.

Well friend, Feliciano thinks, I hope you can’t hear what your successor thinks of you.

But at least this means that Feliciano’s questioning is over once and for all. The mulling that came whenever one of them breathed their last.

Distractedly, Ludwig runs his hand over his slicked-back hair, the tension suddenly leaving him all at once. “Perhaps I should talk to the historians or my brother, to try and figure out how he even managed to keep his place. …Is something the matter with you?”

“I am fine! I just realized it is getting late, and last time I overstayed my welcome I was literally thrown out! Not an experience I want to repeat!” Italy laughs it off and comes to stand on weak legs, knowing he gets away with it because Ludwig is endearingly socially and emotionally inept.

They say their goodbyes and Feliciano steps out alone into the hallway with a cheeky promise to drink with Ludwig once alcohol is allowed again in this house, closing the door behind him and taking a shuddering breath to calm himself, listening to the blood rushing in his ears as he waits for Gilbert to find him.  
God knows he didn’t pay attention to the paths of the house and even if it’s relatively small, he’d still get hopelessly lost in it.

Standing in the hallway, he feels a bit lost already anyway.

The wait isn’t long; Prussia must’ve been lying in wait like a patient cat waiting for the mouse to leave its hole.

Gilbert rounds the corner and claps his hand on Feliciano’s shoulder, not even stopping in his stride and instead dragging him right with him down the corridor, which is a relief in the sense that it means that he barely needs to use his shaking legs.

“So! How was it!” Gilbert asks with affected cheer and uneasy camaraderie, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh and Feliciano hides the wince of pain with one of his smiles. Not good to show vulnerability right now when Gilbert is like this.

“It was oddly pleasant, you’ve been raising him surprisingly well! Quite curious and cultured and all that. Though he’s a little, mhm, unfriendly?” he reports, careful about his criticism in the presence of a very irritable and very doting older brother, whose light eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Is he? That is a good sign.”  
“Good?”  
“Well, of course! It’s good to see he takes his lessons to heart. Flattery and shallow words for politeness’ sake are a waste of everyone’s time. Especially in the presence of somebody like you, don’t you agree? He should speak his mind directly, and if you think he is unkind and rude, then that means he’s being honest and good.”

Interesting logic.

“Oooh, that makes sense of course! Sorry.”

“You better be. And now don’t distract from the issue at hand, tell me about how he’s doing! What would you say is his mental state, hm?” Gilbert presses on, his grip turning vice-like, making Feliciano let out a little whine. The fingers continue to dig into muscle and flesh. “Is he stable?”

“Stable, ah… He seems fine to me certainly. Stressed, maybe. Maybe you could make him work less?” Italy whimpers, failing to keep up the smile against the pain in his shoulder and a tear of relief gathers in the corner of his eye when Gilbert finally relents his grip. Goddamn it.  
There’s more he could say, but somehow he doesn’t feel like sharing this information with Gilbert. If the man wants that information, he’ll have to get it himself. Even if that is perhaps selfish of him to want that to stay between the two of them.

“That’s a relief, I suppose” Gilbert mutters, as if he were not even directing these words at Feliciano, his eyes focused on something the other cannot see. “Bismarck keeps saying he’s unstable. That he’s going to come apart at the literal seams if we are not careful with the brat which is unfortunate timing, because there’s reforms we need to introduce to keep the damn socialists at bay which will take a toll on things, and maybe, just maybe I have been a little harsh on him because I need to ready him for what expects him, because can you imagine what would happen if somebody tipped the scales of power balance once again? What would this rotten continuent do then, what would I do if— Actually, you know what? that is none of your business. Forget I said anything!”

“I heard nothing!” the teen says to appease the other man, relaxing further when Gilbert seems to accept that as reassurance. He smiles to give empty comfort.  
But you can’t erase something that you’ve heard, he thinks as their steps echo in the hallway.

The Holy Roman Empire crumbled, and the German Empire may come undone at the seams.

Funny how history repeats itself.


End file.
